But there was no woomph. No sound at all.
Frowning, she reached for the light switch, thinking that shed misread the dial in the gloom.
No light turned on. She tried the light over the sink. No light there, either. She flew for the telephone then, but obviously she should have guessed thered be no functional phone with no one living in the house right now, and she hadnt been home from France long enough to get a cell phone. For a moment she stared blankly around the kitchen, thinking it had been blue and white the last time shed been home. Now everything was red-red tiles, chintz curtains and rocker cushions. Violet must have done it. The Live Well, Love Much, Laugh Often sign, the girl stuff and country-corny doodads all looked like Violet, too. Daisy didnt care if it wasnt her decorating taste. The drumbeat in her pulse just kept reassuringly thumping home home home.
Only she couldnt stay here. If there was no power, no furnace, there was no way to get warm. No way to cook. She couldnt go out in subzero temperatures in the middle of this storm and chop wood. Frantically she jimmied the thermostat dial again, pushing it back and forth, praying for the sound of the furnace. But there was nothing.
Okay, she told herself, okay, thinking that if she could just calm down and not panic, she could think up a plan.
No plan emerged. She needed heat. Serious heat. The blizzard could go on for days. She needed heat, food and shelter now, before she was any colder, any more exhausted, before the day turned any darker.
For just a second the traitorous thought seeped in her mind that once, just once in her life, shed like a hero. Someone to take care of her for a change. Someone she could depend on. But that thought was so silly that she readily abandoned it.
Daisy had never had a problem attracting men-but they were always the wrong men. The ones she took care of. The ones who were never there when the chips went down. She knew better than to expect anything else, so there was no point in whining-or panicking.
She mentally kicked herself in the fanny and moved. Quickly. All her stuff was being shipped from Europe, but she had the small overnight case. The back hall closet still had some of Dads old coats, her moms old boots. There were always spare gloves and hats under the back hall bench. Most of it was older than the hills and worn, but who cared?
She simply had to be covered enough, protected enough, to get to a neighbor. This was White Hills. No matter what reputation shed had years ago, there wasnt a soul who wouldnt help a Campbell-or who she wouldnt help, for that matter. The MacDougals were gone, because Camille had married into them. But across the sideroad to the west was the Cunningham Farm. The Cunninghams were old, seventies at least by now. But she knew theyd take her in, and undoubtedly try to feed her. Mr. Cunningham would know something about furnaces. Or hed have ideas.
She plunked down in the rocker and leaned over to tug off her wonderful-and now ruined-boots. They didnt want to come off. They were frozen to her feet, stiff enough to make tears sting her eyes to get them loose. Beneath, her feet and toes were red as bricks, and stung.
Not good, not good, not good.
Fear was sneaking up, biting at the edges, threatening to overwhelm her if she let it. She wanted to let it. She put on thick old wool socks, her dads old farm boots, a barn jacket right over her beautiful red cashmere coat. A little warmth started to penetrate, but she wanted to go back in that god-awful screaming wind like she wanted a bullet. It wasnt safe out there, and she knew it.
Still, she swathed her face and neck in a long wool scarf, pulled on double mittens, grabbed her stuff. Dont think, she told herself, just do it. When she opened the door, the wind and snow slapped her like a bully, trying to scare her again, but she forced herself back down the drive. Shed be okay if she didnt lose her head. It might have been years, but she knew exactly where the Cunningham house was.
God knew how long it took to walk a quarter mile down the road-an hour? Longer? But finally she saw lights. The lights not only reassured her that the Cunninghams were home, but that they had power, so they must have a generator. A generator meant heat, light, food. Tears of relief stung her eyes as she trudged the last few feet to the back door and thumped with her dads big mitten.
No one answered.
They were there. A pickup was parked in the driveway, buried in snow. Lights lit up the whole downstairs. Come on, come on, Daisy thought desperately. I dont really need a big hero. Just a little one. Just once, just once, just the least little break, and I swear Ill be tough again tomorrow.
She thumped again. Louder. Harder.
Still, no one answered.
Impatiently she turned the knob, and was relieved to find the door unlocked. Mrs. Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham? One step inside and she immediately felt the gush of warm, wonderful heat. Nothing and no one could have forced her back out in the cold again. Swiftly she latched the door behind her, still calling out, Yoo-hoo! Its just me, Daisy Campbell. You know, Margaux and Colins daughter from across the road. Are you there?
She heard something. A groan. A mans groan. The sound was so unnerving and unexpected that she responded instinctively by running toward it. Someone sounded hurt. Badly hurt.
Shed been in the Cunninghams house before, but that was years ago. They had no children of their own, but shed been there trick-or-treating, selling magazines for school projects, bringing a bushel of apples from her dads orchard, that kind of thing. Shed never seen the upstairs, but she knew the front hall led to a living room off to the right, then a dining area, then the big, old fashioned kitchen.
The mans groan had seemed to come from the kitchen.
The last time shed seen it, the room had avocado-green counters and wallpaper with big splashes of orange and green-circa the sixties or seventies-who knew? Shed been a kid, didnt care. Now, though, the kitchen was obviously in the process of a major rehab. A sawhorse and power tools and impressive-looking cords dominated the middle of the room. There was sawdust all over the floor, new counters and cupboards in the process of being installed. Half were done. The ceiling was done, too, except for a light fixture hanging like a drunken sailor. And beneath that, tangled with an overturned ladder, was a man.
Daisy couldnt take in much in that millisecond-just enough to register that he wasnt one of the Cunninghams. The stranger was youngish, somewhere around thirty. She took in his appearance in a mental snap-shot-the dark hair, the lean, broad-shouldered build. He was dressed for work, in jeans and a long-sleeved tee, a tool belt slung around his hips. But God. None of that mattered.
He was lying on the dusty, littered floor, his eyes closed, flat on his back. One of his boots was still caught in the rung of a ladder. A pool of blood gleamed beneath his head, shining dark red under the bald light-bulb.
Teague Larson had never gone for angels. It wasnt personal. Hed just always liked sex and sin and trouble too much to waste a lot of time on the saintly types.
On the other hand, hed never planned on being dead before-and he figured he had to be dead. No ones head could hurt this bad and still be alive. It seemed further proof of his unfortunate demise that the woman had miraculously appeared out of nowhere.
She was so damned gorgeous that he might even forgive her for being an angel. After his head stopped hurting. If his head ever stopped hurting.
It wasnt helping that his personal, breathtakingly unforgettable angel was swearing loudly enough to wake all the rest of the dead.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Does it ever occur to anybody that sometime Id like to be the one who gets rescued? No. Have I ever asked anything from anyone? No. Did I get my sisters married, get my parents retired, get everybody settled? But for Petes sake, I need a break today. The one thing I do not need is a problem like you. If you die, I swear, Im going to kill you, and Im not kidding! You dont want to see me in a temper. Trust me. You are going to wake up and youre going to be all right, or I swear, youll be sorry!
Truth to tell, she wasnt directly talking to him. She just seemed to be shrieking in a top-voice soprano as she flew around the place. He closed his eyes again, willing the room to stop spinning, willing his head to hurt less-at least enough that he could grasp what was going on.
Unfortunately his memory was slowly seeping back in Technicolor and surround sound. Blurry pictures filled his mind of the ladder tipping, then the noisy crash and scrambling fall. It was the worst kind of memory, because it mortifyingly illustrated one guy stubbornly trying to do the job of two. The story of his life. Too much pride. No ability to compromise. Hell, hed never played well with others in the sandbox.
His personal angel suddenly pushed the ladder out of the way, which jarred his ankle. Until then, he hadnt known his ankle hurt even worse than his head. Hed been better off when he thought he was dead. Itd been quiet around here then. Safer. Now that shed forced him back to reality, there was no going back to that nice, warm, unconscious place. Shed ruined it.
On the other hand, there seemed to be compensations.
He watched her peel off a silly farmers hat, shimmy out of an oversize old barn coat, push off clodhopper boots. If hed had the energy, hed damn near have gasped at the transformation. Hed already seen she had a gorgeous face, but beneath all that clothing was some kind of guys favorite secret fantasy.
Deliberately, enticingly, she stroked the front of his pants, clearly trying to get into his pocket. He wasnt in the mood, no, but pain or no pain, a guy could be forced to rise with enough motivation. She was gentle enough, but she was obviously in a rush, hurrying, hurrying, as if she couldnt wait to get her hands on his you-know-what.
Okay, now he knew definitely that he wasnt dead. The view alone inspired him to keep his eyes open, no matter how badly he was hurting. The way her head was bent over him, he saw a tumble of rich, dark hair. Beneath that crazy old farmers coat was a Christmas-red coat-the kind of thing women looked at in fashion magazines, not the kind of coat people wore in White Hills, Vermont. Didnt matter, she shrugged out of the coat swiftly.